by Mary Gentle
He wrapped his arm about my shoulder and shook me, as if I were a
much younger boy.
It left me sitting forward on the settle; I ran my fingers through my
hair, and lifted my head to look into his face. ‘If you agreed to prison . . .
How long do you stay here?’
‘Long enough, I suppose. I dare say I’ll hear from the King.’
A frown dented his brows.
‘Ilario – I sent no word for you to come home! Whether on a “devil
ship” or not! What are you doing here? It can’t be safe—’
I summarised it as briskly as I might.
‘King Rodrigo will call Aldra Videric back as First Minister,’ I
concluded, ‘now that Admiral Zheng He’s ship is here causing panic.
Then Videric’s back in power, and we need not—’
‘Wait, wait.’ Honorius sliced the edge of his hand through the air.
‘How is this one single ship to cause enough danger to Taraco that the
King can justify that? If it had been a fleet, now . . . What use are a few
hundred men?’
It was a reasonable supposition, given the crews of galleys. A man can
hear ‘giant ship’ without any real conception at the reality of the matter.
‘Five thousand men,’ I corrected.
‘Five – thousand.’
I had brought no sketchbook, there being no way of doing that. I
called to Berenguer to rescue me a charred stick from the edge of the
hearth-fire and, under all their eyes, sketched on the wooden table the
lines of a Venetian galley, and the size, beside it, of Zheng He’s war-junk.
‘Bugger me!’ Honorius said.
I left him staring at it and ate the remainder of the mutton, suddenly
very hungry; and chewed on fresh bread while Honorius and Orazi had a
long and technical argument about the probable effectiveness of a ship
with a crew of five thousand men.
After that, Honorius picked scraps off my plate, and kept breaking off
from his own words to look at me. I did not know whether to feel
embarrassed, or valued, or both.
‘ . . . sent the rest of my men on with orders to my steward, at the
estates,’ he finished, licking grease and crumbs off his fingers. ‘Get the damn place back in order now the King’s promised to withdraw his
garrison. I kept young Saverico because he’s supposedly intelligent.’
The Ensign grinned.
‘And at any rate, young and quick enough to get up and down these
stairs when he’s ordered. And Berenguer because he cooks. And
Sergeant Orazi stayed because I needed a man who could hold a
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conversation and play chess, or I knew I was like to run mad in the first
week. Doing nothing doesn’t come easily to me.’
‘I can believe that . . . ’
Judging by Venice, I thought Orazi’s idea of intelligent conversation
was likely to be, Do you remember when we got all of the foot-reserve into the battle-line that time in Navarra? , but my father is a military man.
‘And the Egyptian’s here?’ Honorius added. ‘All’s well with you and
Rekhmire’?’
‘Certainly.’
He looked a little blank at that, but I couldn’t identify his reasons.
‘And that weasel-assassin you had on a chain: what happened to
Carrasco?’
‘Actually – he’s on the ship, looking after your granddaughter.’
It caught Honorius sufficiently off-balance that he inhaled wine,
dropped his wooden goblet, and sprang up to dash the wine-lees off his
hose, all the while spluttering in outrage and panic. Orazi gave me a
reproachful look.
‘Carrasco makes an excellent nurse.’ It was more than I could do to
restrain a grin, but I stifled it at the realisation that Honorius’s panic was
genuine. ‘It’s safe. I wouldn’t put Onorata in danger.’
Grumbling, Honorius resumed his seat on the settle.
I looked around at the other three, as well as my father.
‘I only landed at dawn today. Has there been gossip or news of Videric
or Rosamunda? Oh—’ The Rialto came vividly back to me. ‘—and
Federico? Did he chicken out? Has he turned up back here in Taraco?’
Orazi shook his head. ‘Nah, not him. Nor his lady wife nor family,
neither. I reckon they’ve gone north like they said.’
Honorius said, ‘I confess I think better of him for that.’
‘I . . . think I may do, too.’
‘As for Videric and Rosamunda—’ Honorius gave the men-at-arms a
questioning look, and spoke again when none of them did. ‘There are no
credible rumours. They’re still on his estates.’
Now I am close enough to be in the same kingdom with Videric, I
wonder if the idea is as splendid as it seemed in Venice.
A sideways look at Honorius confirmed the man a mind-reader, at
least of his son-daughter.
‘No rumours about Carthage, either.’ Honorius signalled for more
wine. ‘But I had reason to be concerned about you, son-daughter, I
thought. We heard stories of some “demon” attack on Queen Ty-
amenhotep. Was that while you were in her city?’
I steadied my goblet with my other hand as Saverico poured.
‘It was the golem.’
Honorius snapped his fingers in irritation. ‘I should have guessed that.
“Demon”, indeed. What happened?’
‘An envoy from Carthage tried to use the golem to kill the Pharaoh-
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Queen.’ I found it comforting to lean my shoulder against Honorius’s.
‘But we stopped it.’
Honorius ran his free hand through his cropped hair, looking queasy.
‘Damned if I would have gone near it! Wait – you stopped it? Not the Queen’s soldiers? You—’
I couldn’t help but look innocent in the face of his bluster. ‘I had the
book-buyer’s help . . . ’
Honorius narrowed his eyes at me. ‘How could you fight a monstrous
thing like that?’
I took another swallow, feeling a relaxation that was partly drinking
wine on top of too little food, and mostly the relief of Honorius’s
company.
‘Who’d fight the thing? We disabled it beforehand. So when the envoy
tried, nothing happened.’
‘Disabled—’
Four pairs of eyes watched me. Saverico and Berenguer in wonder,
Orazi both sceptical and bemused, and my father looking as if he
suspected some trick was being played on the Lion of Castile.
‘We used . . . A secret weapon.’ I bit down on my lower lip and
managed not to smile.
‘Secret weapon,’ Honorius echoed.
‘You blew it up!’ Saverico yelped excitedly.
Gravely, I said, ‘No, I think they would have noticed that.’
Orazi snickered.
‘And where did this “secret weapon” come from?’ Honorius inquired.
‘Out of Masaccio’s workshop. Or – the recipe did.’
‘“Recipe.”’ My father’s eyes began to narrow. His lip twitched.
‘They’d notice Greek Fire, too!’
Berenguer interrupted scornfully. ‘What kind of weapon comes out of
a painter’s workshop?’
Over Saverico’s and Orazi’s raucous comments, I managed to make
myself heard. ‘It had lime in it . . . ’
Honorius grinned and pounced. ‘You burned the damn stone man!’
/>
‘No, no burning; not even with quicklime.’
A considerable hubbub arose from the men-at-arms, speculating what
weapon might destroy a stone man without leaving signs of this. I paid
no attention, watching the creasing of lines about Honorius’s eyes.
‘A secret weapon,’ he speculated aloud, holding back a smile. ‘Made
out of what you may find in a painter’s workshop. Which you had
knowledge of. Beginning with lime—’
The room’s outer door opened. Safrac de Aguilar stood with the royal
guard, a regretful expression making his long face even longer.
‘My apologies, but it’s near on the hour of Terce. We must go.’
I rose from the settle, conscious that Honorius stood up beside me.
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‘It’s not a time to annoy Rodrigo Sanguerra.’ I looked up at my father.
‘I’ll be back later. As soon as I can.’
Honorius nodded soberly, and wrung my hands in a parting grip.
Halfway to the door, he called, ‘Quicklime and what else? Give me a
clue! What other secret ingredient is there?’
Safrac de Aguilar stepped aside to let me pass. I glanced back over my
shoulder, and left the Lion of Castile with a single word.
‘Cheese!’
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6
By the time we reached the royal appartments, Terce had rung out from
the chapel bells. De Aguilar looked apprehensive as he led me into King
Rodrigo’s council chamber.
King Rodrigo Sanguerra and the envoy of Alexandria both stood,
chairs shoved rudely back from the inlaid wood table, shouting at each
other in contesting bass and tenor.
I crossed my arms over my chest, and glanced at Aldra Safrac. ‘No
need to be concerned. If I got up on the table and took all my clothes off,
I doubt either one of them would notice.’
Safrac de Aguilar proved to have a thoroughly pleasant laugh.
Neither of the quarrelling men reacted to it.
King Rodrigo Sanguerra sat decisively down in his chair.
‘No,’ he said. ‘ No.’
It was Aldra Safrac’s suggestion that the King might wish to break his
fast which moved us all into one of the lesser chambers. Smaller, more
comfortable, I felt it take the edge off Rodrigo’s temper.
If I recall correctly, he was never even-tempered if ill-fed.
It would have been impolite to refuse food myself, so I ate in the
King’s company again. Rekhmire’ copied me for the manners of
Taraco. When we were done, King Rodrigo took off his overrobe and
stretched out his arms, gazing down from the high window at the inland
mountains. The late morning sun cut lined crevasses into his features.
‘Your pardon, Majesty,’ Rekhmire’ said, with an inoffensiveness I
envied. ‘But will you tell me what does not please you about this?’
Rodrigo turned his back to the sculpted window. To my surprise, he
gazed at me.
‘I’m glad to see you not murdered,’ he observed, ‘despite all the
trouble you’ve caused me. So much I can say. For the rest, and this
“war-junk” . . . My high council is due to meet at Sext. If I tell them I intend to recall Aldra Videric – on what they will see as a pretext – we shall still be talking this time next month, and still nothing will get done!’
Rekhmire’’s brandy-coloured eyes met mine, for the briefest of
moments. I read Not enough perfectly clearly.
The Egyptian spoke deferentially; only someone who knew him well
would have detected the acid quality to his speech.
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‘Would it speed matters if the foreign ship were to fire on that
headland?’ He indicated the chamber’s other window, which faced south
east. ‘Just by way of a demonstration?’
Through the stone frame carved with oak leaves and acorns, I saw a
coastal view long familiar to me. Roman ruins on a headland, a mile or so
away from the city itself; broken-off stout pillars rounded by centuries of
rain and frost. I remember taking stolen bottles of wine up there with
other slaves, resting on the sun-heated rock, watching lizards dart into
crevices.
‘Even if it would, I do not permit the suggestion.’ King Rodrigo seated
himself in the oak chair at the table’s head, taking his weight on his wrists
like an old man. Even with the little time I had been gone, he seemed
older to me.
Or perhaps, until now, I have never entirely stopped seeing the man I saw at fifteen. When he bought and paid for me.
Rodrigo Sanguerra studied me with an intent gaze.
Cao!
It sounded better in Chin.
I realised a little late that the light from the windows clearly illuminated
my face. The King nodded as if his suspicions were confirmed.
‘I think . . . yes. Ilario, if there is anything to be done here, the
representative of New Alexandria and I will do it. You should return to
the monstrous ship as soon as you can. If anything’s to be made out of
this, we need not confuse people over who truly sired you!’
I spoke before Rekhmire’ could interject.
‘Does it matter, sire? My father’s in prison, so no man will see us
together. And no one will hear it from me if you desire me to say
nothing.’
The King shot a look at me, clearly assessing.
‘Rosamunda was your dam, I don’t doubt it. But the Lion of Castile
has left his imprint all over your face. If that story got out, every man would be calling Lord Videric a cuckold!’
Rodrigo shook his head.
‘Bad enough that my boy-girl Court Fool should turn out to be First
Minister Videric’s child! That was scandal enough! If word gets out that
all Pirro Videric is to you is your mother’s husband . . . ’
He eased back in his chair, chin on fist again, watching me. I know this
of old, I thought, relaxing a little. He doesn’t trust an Alexandrine, but me
– me he desires to convince him.
Rodrigo scowled. ‘After the accusations made by Carthage, Videric’s
enemies here in my court can despise him for fathering a freak. With
your true parentage known – they would laugh at my lord Videric
because his wife had another man’s child. Nothing is harder to recover
from than laughter.’
Captain-General Honorius might resent being accused of fathering a
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freak, I thought. But the King would have spoken to my father, and
would know that by now.
He’s seeing if I can be goaded into unwise speech.
‘I need Aldra Pirro Videric back.’ Rodrigo’s voice was a bass growl. He
switched his glare to Rekhmire’. ‘I don’t believe I need Queen Ty-ameny
to tell me this!’
Rekhmire’ bowed his head, where he sat on a less-decorated chair;
much in the manner that I’d seen him do when being book-buyer to a
difficult client. ‘It’s in the interests of New Alexandria to offer what
assistance we can, Majesty. No one wants a war.’
The King’s gaze shifted to that window which allowed a view south.
‘ Carthage wants war. And I dare say Constantinople and Carthage will at
some date contest the future of the Middle Sea – although I take it, from
what you say, that this is not yet?’
‘The Great Queen fights to ensure it is not.’
The late morning haze had burned off the sea. At the window’s edge,
it was just possible to see Zheng He’s impossibly large ship.
The King looked back towards me.
‘You bring me a cause. Not a sufficient one to carry it through.’
My stomach plummeted.
Rodrigo Sanguerra shifted his gaze rapidly to Rekhmire’. ‘So. What
else have you to suggest?’
Refreshments were brought in from time to time, and I noted how
certain faces appeared again and again among the servants. Like Safrac
de Aguilar, who kept the door, men that King Rodrigo could trust not to
spread rumours. When I excused myself to the necessary-room, I
investigated long enough to find Attila and Tottola in an antechamber,
boasting to the King’s household guards.
I stopped long enough to arrange food and drink for them, and to
comprehend that – however outrageous their stories – they were not
touching on the truth.
‘I hope you’re getting somewhere in there,’ Tottola grumbled. ‘St
Gaius himself would be bored with this!’
Somewhat out of temper myself, I shook my head. ‘They might just as
well have sent us back to the ship. If things don’t change, I’ll put a dress
on and have a fit of female hysterics!’
That left the German brothers chuckling.
When Rekhmire’ and the King began to circle the discussion of royal
and clerical legalities for the third time, I gave in to temptation and
pulled a folded sheet of paper out of my leather purse. Smoothing it out
on my thigh, I began partial studies with a nub of chalk. The woollen
hose were warm for summer, and the mail – where the links sucked on to
my torso – breath-snatchingly hot. My knight’s training is long enough
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ago that I had forgotten the breathlessness of wearing any armour in hot
weather.
The interwoven strands of linen and reed that made up Rekhmire’’s
headband provided an interesting challenge to draw. I added the curve of
his brow-ridge under it, the kohl-marked line of upper and lower eyelid;
sketched the shape of his mouth . . .
Is Rekhmire’ waiting until the King has talked himself dry before he
introduces some idea of his own? Or have they already talked that
through, and is he at a loss?
